The Flavor of Magic
by Arzosah
Summary: A collection of short stories inspired by the flavor text of Magic: the Gathering cards. Rated for gore. Please read and review. Updated: Myr Servitor.
1. Lyzolda the Blood Whitch

Disclaimer: I do not own Magic the Gathering.

**Sacrificial rites take place before an audience of cheering cultists, each begging to be the next on stage.**

_Magic the Gathering, Dissension, Flavor Text from Lyzolda, the Blood Witch_

Blood and fire mingled as the gutted ogre thrashed on the stone slab, still laughing as he bled. Lyzolda grinned and reached out to flame with her scared and scorched hand. Grasping a blazing ember she lifted it and dropped it sharply into the ogre's open belly. He howled in agony, but his laughter soon returned, his back arching in pain. All around them the cheering became louder.

Lyzolda laughed with her sacrifice, raising her knife for another cut, this one cleaving open his ribs from his throat to join with the wound in his gut. His laughter stopped as his chest was split, his ability to breathe gone. His diaphragm, or what was left of it, convulsed futilely, and he thrashed all the harder with the last of his strength. The onlookers stomped a rhythm with their cheering, and a few of them scrambled towards the stage. Only to be held back by Lyzolda's undead guards, who growled at them to wait their turn.

At long last the ogre fell still and silent, that demented grin still plastered on his face. Lyzolda lowered her knife and stepped to his side, reaching into his cleft chest. With a grunt and a sharp tug she wrenched the still quivering heart out of the bloody cavity. Amidst the rising cheers of the cultists surrounding her she proudly held up the heart for all to see. And then harshly cast it into the fire, where the sizzling remains of other recently hewn hearts still burned. She waved her hand dismissively and a pair of burly zombies dragged the dead ogre off the stage.

Once more alone on the platform before the cultists, Lyzolda turned to the crowd and beckoned to them with a crooked finger. The cheering turned into a harsh roar as every single one of them scrambled to be the first to reach her, the zombies allowing them passage this time. They fought and clawed their way forwards, each of them begging to be picked. But Lyzolda made no choice and picked no favorite, waiting silently until one, a goblin, managed to make it onto the stage. He knelt before her, grinning expectantly, his eyes fixed on her bloody knife. And Lyzolda grinned back, waving back the other cultists as she raised her blade for the first cut.


	2. Restless Bones

**"We mourn our dead. We shroud our dead. We bury our dead. Too often, it seems, we must kill our dead again."**

**—Grazda, veteran armorer**

_Magic the Gathering, Guildpact, Flavor Text from Restless Bones_

Grazda looked up from the sword he was cleaning. There was that wailing again. The forge's fire danced in a cold wind from the night outside. Grazda shivered and turned his attention back to the blade in his hands. It was nothing to worry about, surely.

The wailing sounded again, closer this time, and was accompanied by the sound of bone scraping against stone. Grazda now knew that there was cause to worry; it was rare in these parts that the amblings of the dead were completely benign. The whet stone clattered forgotten to the floor as he rose to his feet, bringing the half sharpened blade to bear against whatever approached the forge's entrance. He could only hope that it would be enough to ward it off.

The scrapping bone became louder with each passing moment, and Grazda swallowed a lump in his throat as a gaunt shadow began to peek into view just beyond the forge's open door. I should close it, he thought, risking a step forwards, extending one hand away from the sword towards the handle just barely out of his reach. Almost there; but too late. The zombie had appeared not two feet from the entrance, gazing at him blankly from hollow eye sockets.

Grazda froze in fear, his fingertips just brushing the cold metal of the door handle, his own eyes transfixed by the empty blackness of the zombie's. The wind blew hard, making the gauzy shroud still draped from the skeleton's body billow around it. An old, rusty sword was clutched loosely in its bony hand, one more ceremonial than practical, marking it as a fallen warrior. It was the sword that caused panic to rise in his gorge; never was an armed zombie a good sign. For a moment, both were perfectly still, until Grazda decided to make the first move.

Darting forwards as far as he dared, he grasped the door handle and threw his weight behind it. But the skeleton was faster than it looked, and though the door closed, the zombie had slipped past him. Grazda was cornered now, as the undead warrior advanced, bringing that ceremonial sword up in preparation for a strike. Remembering his own sword, the armorer hastily parried the blow and drove the blade straight into the zombie's chest where the heart would have been had it still had all its flesh. It gave no reaction, and pushed itself closer to him, reaching out for his throat with its free hand.

Before the bony fingers could make contact with his skin, Grazda ducked to the side and threw his shoulder into the skeleton's own, forcing it back towards the fire that still burned at the far end of the room. It staggered, but was seemingly undeterred by the blow and tried again, this time coming a hair's berth from strangling him. Again Grazda rammed his shoulder into the zombie, pulling away his blade as the undead warrior went careening into the open fire. It lay there a moment, thrashing and writhing as it burned, and then was still as the flames consumed its remaining flesh.

Grazda collapsed to his knees in relief, but despair soon claimed him. This one was dead for good, but the Golgari would never stop.


	3. Nezumi ShadowWatcher

**"The Okiba Gang! Night-cursed thieves and assassins! I've had enough of their meddling! Triple the guard!"**

**—Marrow-Gnawer**

_Magic the Gathering, Betrayers of Kamigawa, flavor text from Nezumi Shadow-Watcher_

The nezumi shivered and pulled his ragged cloak tighter against the night's chill. He hated guard duty, especially at night in the coldest days of winter. The air was disturbingly still, and the only sounds were the occasional burbling of the swamp and his own breathing. He flicked his tail in annoyance as he stared out into the darkness. Why did those damn ninjas have to be most active in the winter?

The rat stifled a yawn and tightened his grip on his spear. He hoped something would show up tonight to end the monotony, be it Okiba Gang or otherwise. He might have even welcomed the arrival of Horobi, but in truth the kami of death and decay was the last thing anyone wanted appearing on their watch. Thankfully he only came to the smell of blood, or at least that is what all the stories said.

A subtle in the brush movement caught his anxious eye, and the rat focused his gaze on that spot. At first he saw nothing, and then something stepped forwards into his vision. A female of his kind, masked and garbed in rough black leather, a blood-stained Kama clutched in each hand. He stood and brought his spear to bear as he recognized what she was; an Okiba Gang ninja.

She glared at him from behind her leather mask, her ears and nose twitching as she sized him up. The smaller nezumi snarled in response, flattening his own ears back against his bristling neck and twisting his claws around the haft of his spear. For a moment both were motionless, but then the ninja charged, springing forwards with her kamas raised above her head. The night-guard shrieked a battle cry and mimicked her move, drawing back his spear. They met in the same instant, spear piercing a gut, kamas slitting a throat. Neither had time to ponder the brevity of their battle, both dead within moments.

Again the night was still and quiet as the two rats lay in a crumpled heap soaked through to the skin by their own blood. Nothing moved, a chill wind blew, and then another form stepped out of the shadows where the now dead ninja had been not a moment before. Another nezumi, another ninja. She turned her blood-red glare towards the two corpses, before sniffing in disdain and slipped past them into the darkness. It may only take one to sound the alarm, but the alarm had not been sounded. There was still a chance for success this night.


	4. Scaled Hulk

**"Say, what rhymes with 'run for your lives'?"**

**—Ku-Ku, akki poet**

_Magic the Gathering, Betrayers of Kamigawa, Flavor Text from Scaled Hulk_

"Say, what rhymes with 'run for your lives'?" the akki asked no one in particular as he paced a small circle, scratching his long nose in thought. Snow-Fur, who had the misfortune of picking a place to sit that was near the goblin's ramblings looked up from the piece of parchment in front of him.

"Are you asking me?" he questioned as politely as he could manage, trying not to lose his patience, absently twirling the pen held in his paw.

"Yeah, I s'pose," Ku-Ku turned to look at the white fox sitting cross-legged a few yards away from him. "You know, one poet to another."

Snow-Fur sighed and stared blankly at the as of yet empty parchment before him. The akki didn't leave when he got no response, so the kitsune turned back to him.

"What is the context of the line?" he asked tensely, humoring the goblin. Ku-Ku was about to say something, but a shout rang out.

"IT'S COMING RIGHT FOR US!!!!!!" followed shortly by a crashing noise and an unearthly roar. Both the kitsune and the akki looked up in the direction of the sound and Snow-Fur found his jaw dropping at what he saw: a pair of soldiers running as fast as they could, with one of the most ferocious looking kami the fox had ever seen hot on their heels. It towered over the hapless humans, roaring from its two mouths loud enough to shake the ground, occasionally swiping at them with a long green talon.

"Um… yeah…" the akki articulated with a few gestures to the massive spirit.

"I… see…" the kitsune replied, still stunned by what he was seeing, the inklings of a poem of his own taking shape in his mind.

"So, what does rhyme with 'run for your lives'?" Ku-Ku asked again, breaking Snow-Fur's train of thought.

"Well, let's see now," now suddenly in a more helpful mood, the fox began to ponder the question in earnest. "Lives, lives, lives. Wives. Knives. Strives. Contrives. Derives. Hives."

"Good one," the goblin interrupted with a chuckle, no doubt thinking about the skin condition hives instead of the insect hives. Snow-Fur's ears fell back in disgust, and was about to continue but was cut off by another scream from the soldiers.

"IT'S COMING AROUND FOR ANOTHER PASS!!!!!!!!" Miraculously, neither soldier had been caught, yet. But knowing how tenacious kami could be it was only a matter of time. Just like it was only a matter of time before it spotted them, too. Obviously, both the fox and the goblin figured it.

"I think we should leave," Ku-Ku squeaked, taking a step away from the scene before them.

"I wholeheartedly agree," Snow-Fur replied softly, his eyes never leaving the spirit's massive form as it continued to give chase. And then both poets were off as quickly and subtly as was physically possible. The kami never noticed them.


	5. Glimpse the Unthinkable

AN: I thank my one reviwer. Glad you liked it.

**"I am confident that if anyone actually penetrates our facades, even the most perceptive would still be fundamentally unprepared for the truth of House Dimir."**

**—Szadek**

_Magic the Gathering, Ravnica: City of Guilds, flavor text from Glimpse the Unthinkable_

I'd once heard it said that seeking the truth is like blindly reaching for a tumbling knife: you either grasp the handle and wield a deadly weapon, or you grasp the blade and end up wishing you'd never known. Me, I ended up grasping the blade, and here I am as a result, captive of a guild that shouldn't even exist. Still, I have to count my blessings: I am neither dead nor insane. That counts for something, doesn't it?

I have been all but alone except for the ever silent skeletal guards keeping vigil over my cell. Szadek came down to observe me once, but I have seen no one else since. The old, wizened vampire said nothing during his stay, just regarded me as a griffin would regard a starving mongrel: am I really worth the effort? I'm not sure how much time has passed since he left.

I woke up this morning to find the Lord of Secrets back, still regarding me coldly. I sat up and met his hollow gaze in a show of defiance. I wasn't sure I would have been able to deify the Dimir Guildlord in any other way.

"You have absolutely no idea how fortunate you are," Szadek spoke for the first time since I'd arrived. "To have seen the truth and emerge with your mind unscathed."

I was tempted to bite back a retort, but it died in my throat. The vampire's gaze had become far too intense, and I grudgingly averted my eyes.

"You are quite perceptive, cunning, not to mention tenacious," he went on, beginning to pace in front of my cell, his booted footsteps barely a whisper on the dusty floor. "I like that. It is those traits that make House Dimir strong."

The vampire stopped his pacing and stared coldly at me again.

"I am going to offer you a choice, young one," Szadek addressed icily as an almost feline grin began to spread across his face. "Either you cooperate and come with me voluntarily, or I will have my guards take you down to Circu for a little… conditioning."

I stiffened as he spoke, remembering all those ghost stories I had been told about House Dimir, stories about the Lord of Secrets' pet lobotomist, who was said to be able to destroy every last shred of a person's identity, leaving them as nothing but an empty shell ready to serve his master. I had an idea what was meant by 'conditioning'.

"One way or another, you will serve within the guild," the vampire continued, unlocking the cell door with a wave of his hand and opening it. "The choice is yours."

He took a step towards me and extended a pale, spidery hand, waiting for my decision. I hesitated in fear, my breath catching in my throat. He was patient in his waiting, but though I knew he had forever to wait, I also knew he would not wait forever for my choice. Swallowing nervously, I extended my shaky hand to his.

Szadek's feral grin broadened, exposing his fangs, and with a strength I had not thought possible of his gaunt frame, he hauled me to my feet. I wobbled on my unsteady legs, but he held firm.

"Welcome to House Dimir," he whispered, leaning down dangerously close to my throat. "We have such sights to show you."


	6. Yomiji, Who Bars the Way

Once again I thank my reviewers. It is your feedback that truly makes this all worth it. Hope you enjoy this next one.

**"As I died, I rejoiced. I would see my family again. But then I woke up back on the battlefield. Back in Kamigawa. Back in hell."**

**—Kenzo the Hardhearted**

_Magic the Gathering, Betrayers of Kamigawa, flavor text from Yomiji, Who Bars the Way_

The pain of the sword blow across my chest only lasted a second, before everything faded into a numbing blackness. I felt like I was floating, drifting through a sea of the deepest shadows. I couldn't tell which way was up or down, or even if I was moving at all. Somehow I knew that I was dead, but in the face of the almost blissful numbness, that fact didn't bother me. I was, after all, a soldier, prepared for death.

A soft glow appeared in the darkness in front of me, warm, and inviting. I felt drawn to it, like a moth to a candle's flame. Somehow I knew that was where I was supposed to go, and so I went, the glow gradually forming into a solid orb of light as I neared. I wanted to reach out to touch it, to try and grasp it, but my arm refused to move. Still I neared it, a sudden sensation of relief overcoming me. But then something else began to form from the light, and bewilderment is my next emotion.

The form was massive, towering easily five times my height, if my gauge of distance was correct. It was shrouded in a heavy white robe, the fabric flowing off the outline of limbs to billow in a wind of their own creation. Its head, or what appeared to be its head, was narrow and elongated, with a pair of thin swept antlers jutting off from the sides, and only a single golden eye in the center of what should have been its face. It didn't appear to have hands, instead having dozens of elegant red ribbons twisting and dancing out from the sleeves of its robes. It held the light I had first seen to its center by some invisible force, and thousands of other tiny orbs circled its massive form. If I'd still possessed the ability to sink to my knees, I surely would have. There was no mistaking what it was I saw before me: a kami.

For a moment I floated stunned to silence in front of the towering spirit, before my voice found me again.

"M… Master Kami, this it truly an honor…" I stuttered out, suddenly unsure of my own voice for more reasons than just my awe.

"Welcome, young mortal," the kami addressed back, its thin, genderless voice seeming to come from nowhere and everywhere. "I've been expecting you."

"What should I call you by, Master Kami?" I somehow managed to get out smoothly.

"I am Yomiji," the spirit answered simply, before extending one of those ribony arms towards me. "Come."

"Are you here to escort me to the afterlife, Master Yomiji?" I questioned, fear suddenly taking hold as the unearthly fibers of the spirits arms coiled past me, encircling me.

"No," Yomiji replied flatly. "That is not my duty."

"Then where are you taking me, Master Yomiji?" Suddenly I was very afraid. What was my fate in death if not to pass on? Was I to be destroyed? I struggled against the tendrils that coiled around my torso. They only tightened for my troubles.

"Don't fight me," the kami hissed, a sound like water on hot metal. "It will only bring you pain."

The spirit's words did nothing to ease my panic and I struggled all the harder.

"Do you truly wish to vanish into oblivion?" Yomiji questioned in that same hiss, reeling me in a little closer. "Do you wish to cease to exist entirely? For if that is what you want I will happily let you go."

The threat hit home, and I went limp in the kami's grasp. With a sound not much unlike a sigh, Yomiji reeled me in closer.

"The way of death is barred from you for now," the spirit explained in a surprisingly soothing tone. "It was not your time to die. I am here to rectify that mistake."

And without waiting for a reply, Yomiji pulled me sharply into the light I had been seeking barely a moment before. I was scorched by it, blinded by it, but then it stopped, fading back into the blackness I had entered upon my death. I opened my eyes. I sat up. I looked around. I checked my throat for a pulse. I was alive. But I was also alone.


	7. Myr Servitor

AN: This already dark series just got a whole lot darker. Enjoy.

**The Krark Clan enjoys pulling them apart just to watch them reassemble one another.**

Magic the Gathering; Fifth Dawn; Flavor text from Myr Servitor

The Myr fell in a ruined heap beside its freshly repaired companion. It sparked and convulsed on the ground amidst the jeers and laughs of their tormenters. The other one righted itself, staring up at the goblins that ringed them with expressionless eyes, before approaching its fallen companion. A quick evaluation of the damage, before it got to work. There was a very good reason for why they always traveled in groups of two or more.

The cackling laughter became louder as the Myr labored over its companion, carefully reattaching limbs and repairing torn wiring. It kept its wedge-shaped head bent over its work, seemingly ignoring the taunting goblins above them. A crooked bit of plating lifted from the chassis and straightened out. The dangling eye gently finagled back into its socket. But then it suddenly paused in its work; a piece was missing, one of the feet.

Glancing up from its companion, the Myr scanned the area around them, staring blankly at each goblin in turn. The jeers became even louder still when its gaze finally settled on one in particular, the one who held the component tauntingly. The goblin grinned widely as he tossed the part up and down in his hand, daring the little Myr to take it from him. However, in spite of all the noise and cruelty, its expression never changed as its head followed the movements of the hunk of mangled metal.

Undeterred by the goading, the Myr cautiously approached the goblin, making him grin even more. He held the little foot high, pinched between two fingers, dangling it tauntingly above them both. The little robot eyed him cautiously, before rearing up and reaching out. Not close enough, and the goblins laughed all the harder.

Seeing an opportunity for more fun, the Myr's tormenter jiggled the foot briefly, before tossing it to another goblin across the circle. He caught it clumsily, but managed to hold on as the little robot leapt after it. More laughter, and then another toss, but this goblin failed to catch it, and the chunk of metal fell to the ground. The much put-upon Myr wasted no time pouncing on it.

For a moment the jeering was focused on the one who dropped the ball, and in that moment the little robot worked to add the final repairs to its fallen companion. A little force had the foot back in its normal shape, and a few twists had it back on its leg. With every piece back in its proper place, the Myr sat back and watched as its companion twitched itself back to life.

But it didn't get a chance to see its comrade stand again, the gnarly hands of several goblins snatching it up and raising it high above their heads. More cackles, and the Myr was brutally ripped to pieces. And the cycle began anew.


End file.
